7 Days of Joy and Sorrow: Tzav 5776

Joy and sorrow, birth and death, creation and destruction—these opposites are bound together; one is not possible without its antithesis. All too often does joy come attended by sorrow—Purim is the great example of a “redemption” that is tempered by ongoing exile, of a victory which leaves the victor debased in his resemblance of his drunken oppressors. It is a joyous sorrow or a saddened joy—neither a tragedy nor a clean escape. As we turn back to the Torah cycle, the pairing of joy and sorrow will be a recurrent theme.

The number seven is symbolic in both directions—seven days are dedicated to celebrate a marriage, and seven to mourn a death. Seven are the days of creation in Genesis, and seven are the days of dedication of the priesthood at the end of Parashat Tzav. The Talmud in Megillah 10b famously announces that the introduction ויהי, “and then it happened…” always augurs disaster. This is the opening word of Megillah Esther, and also of next week’s portion, Shmini, and both texts do indeed include disasters. Yet even these tales they are not entirely unhappy. As the Gemara notes, the same word ויהי links the creation narrative to the dedication of the tabernacle, also in Shmini. A beraitha claims that the day the tabernacle was dedicated was God’s happiest day since creation. Why the sorrow?

The Talmud answers its own question—the dedication of the tabernacle was indeed joyous, but it was also the day that Nadav and Avihu died. Not so happy, after all. And looking back to the closing verses of our portion, the seven days of ordination are ominous in retrospect. They start out joyously enough. Midrash Sifra relates that God tells Moses to tell Aaron and his sons to sit by the tent opening for seven days, and they happily accept the order, even though it is mediated, not direct. Still we wonder—why do they need to “sit” for seven days?

The Talmud Yerushalmi (Moed Katan 82c; see parallel in Bereshit Rabba P101) considers the biblical origins of the command to sit “shiva” for seven days, since it is never spelled out explicitly. Several options are offered, but for our purposes the main one is that God “observed shiva” for seven days BEFORE destroying the world, and likewise God commanded Aaron and his sons to “observe” seven days BEFORE the coming tragedy of the deaths of Nadav and Avihu. Since time is not linear for God, and God is after all the actor who will flood the flawed creation, it makes a certain amount of sense for God to mourn a tragedy that has yet to occur. But what were Aaron and his sons thinking during this time of mourning for a yet-unknown tragedy?

Midrash Tanhuma links this theme to a strange verse, Ecclesiastes 8:5: One who obeys orders will not suffer from the dangerous situation. This text seems to mean that a virtuous person will not “know sorrow,” meaning that they will be impervious or exempt from suffering. But the Midrash inverts this somewhat and says that Aaron and sons had the virtue of guarding the mitzvah of bereavement, even when they didn’t know the reason, והיו משמרים ולא היו יודעים על מה משמרים. They “kept guard [i.e sat shiva] but did not known for what reason they were guarding.”

How very strange and yet very realistic is this rabbinic instruction on facing both joy and sorrow. In times of celebration, we recall dangers past and future. And in times of sorrow, we recall celebrations both past and future. A sense of contingency tempers the extremes of sorrow and joy, reminding us that the intense emotions of a moment will soon yield to a broader perspective. We comfort mourners with a reminder that they are not alone—that others have also experienced loss, and that this dark moment will eventually yield to new experience and even new joy. Likewise we conclude a wedding with a reminder of the destruction of ancient Jerusalem, linking our greatest personal joy with our great national sorrow.

The period between Purim and Pesah is in a sense the happiest time of year for the Jewish people. We connect one redemption to the other, setting aside historical chronology for the deeper cycle of crisis, loss, rebuilding, celebration and anticipation of the next calamity. Even as Aaron and his sons sit in dedication, filled with joy over their selection to serve God as priests, they are likewise observing an anticipated loss which is as yet unknown.

What lesson does this sober analysis offer for us? Just this, I think: to enter into a life of religious leadership means to commit oneself to an expanded experience of both joy and sorrow. We in the clergy are invited to many celebrations—more weddings and other simhahs than most people experience. And likewise we are called into the circle of grief more often than most—we are expected to be containers of extreme emotions, celebrating with a measure of restraint, and mourning with a measure of joy. We are asked to be “in the moment,” but also a bit outside of it, reminding people that human experience is cyclical, that joy is not guaranteed to last forever, and neither is sorrow. With this perspective, we can attain a wise heart and develop the strength needed to endure and even thrive in the most challenging circumstances.

As Purim yields to Shabbat, let us enhance our appreciation for the gifts that are ours, even as we are aware of their evanescence, strengthening ourselves to face future challenges with confidence and even joy.